


When In Doubt

by JesWithOneEss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Deathly Hallows, F/M, Harry Potter - Freeform, Missing Moments, Ron and Hermione - Freeform, book 7, book canon, rhr, romione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JesWithOneEss/pseuds/JesWithOneEss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can plan for any possible outcome, prepare for the worst, and hope for the best, but unless you know for sure what will happen… is it worth the risk? A Deathly Hallows missing moments story from Hermione's perspective, with my own interpretation of what may have happened between her and Ron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Doubt

Self doubt is a crippling thing. 

Especially when you strive so hard to do everything so perfectly. 

When you trust your intuition because it is widely known, and is told to you, and to others, for so many years, by people whom you look up to and respect their opinions and decisions, that you are the brightest witch they have ever known. 

The proof is all right there for anyone to find. Find any essay, and it will have the highest marks, and will surely be inches longer than required, sometimes needing another sheet of parchment. Results of her O.W.L.S: As many O’s as she could manage, which is all of them, falling straight down in a line, one after another. But with that all that knowledge, all that work she puts into cramming all the history, all the spells, all the facts and numbers and names… is it enough?

She studied it, back to front, and sideways, and back again. But there is no way to test it, to find out for sure if it will work. And all of that cleverness and intellect, what good is it if she can’t predict the future? You can plan for any possible outcome, prepare for the worst, and hope for the best, but unless you know for sure what will happen… is it worth the risk?

The alternative is not an option. She can’t just leave them here. And the Death Eaters, with their hatred for muggles, would love nothing more than to target ones whose daughter is helping Harry Potter, their Dark Lord’s arch enemy. Keeping them here, even under the heaviest of protection spells, will not work. Look what happened to Harry’s parents… you can never be too careful. Not at a time like this. Whether or not she lives til the end of this war, she can at least find a small comfort in them being safe. 

But it is only that small comfort that is keeping this option open, to obliviate their minds, to not only make them forget her, but to move them as far away as humanly possible. They have to forget her, because if, for some horrific reason, they are found, they won’t be able to give her away, even through magical means. She has to be deleted, for self-preservation purposes. But there is another reason, a more heart breaking reason, for them to forget her existence, for if she does not make it back to them they will be able to live on happily, together, never having to learn of her death- Never having to mourn the child they never knew. 

But will it work? And will she be able to reverse it if she does find them again? Not to mention the moral implications of mucking around with someone’s mind… two of them, in fact. She has to do this twice, one after the other, and that thought alone is enough to send her spiraling once again, down into the nether of negativity and doubt...   
The doubt that has set in, even stronger now. It has taken a seat, tapping its foot, waiting impatiently for her to crumble, to bail out and crawl back into her soft, cozy bed until she can think of another solution. But she doesn’t have the time. An she’s done the research; She knows there isn’t another way. She is merely hoping, and hope has a way of making one stagnant. Hope, for her, is a hinderance, in this case. Right now she has to move, quit staring at the wallpaper in her childhood bedroom- the room she no longer identifies with, with it’s non-magical things such as electric lamps and non-moving photos. 

She sniffs, and closes her eyes as a tear rolls down her cheek. How had everything gotten so complicated? How did she get herself into this? How can she get them all out of it- herself, her family, her friends? She puts her head in her hands and lets out a sob, and it feels good to let it go; just one loud sound to empty herself of just a bit of the terror, and stress, that has been building up inside of her for weeks. 

The pressure that others unintentionally put on her to be the best at knowing things is nothing compared to what she does to herself on a daily basis. She can’t help being this way, determined to always be particular about what is right, and to correct others. Highly logical, perceptive… smart. She is proud of those words being associated with her persona, but sometimes she felt the burden, heavy like an elephant sitting on her chest, and all she wanted was to be weightless. 

Her thoughts turn to Ron, and how he is expecting her today. How he has no idea what she is about to do. After it’s done, and after she leaves the house, probably for good, she will see him again. She’ll tell him what she did, and he’ll be there, and maybe, hopefully, let her cry on his shoulder. He was there for her during Dumbledore’s funeral, with his arm around her shoulders, his hand on her hair. He was… sweet. She isn’t sure how to think of them beyond that, but the image of his freckly face and floppy red hair, his too-big hands and long arms wrapped around her in a hug… Yes, that is something to look forward to, surely. 

Wiping away her tears, she stands up and grabs a tissue to blow her nose. She adjusts the strap of her beaded bag across her torso, and raises her wand. Sweeping her arm around the room, she changes the wallpaper, the bedsheets, and empties the frames on the walls. She had already taken down all of her awards, and packed her books and personal items. Now, it’s as if a stranger lives here. She ignores the ache in her chest, and the fear behind it as she opens her door, breaking the silencing spell on the room, and walks out into the hall. 

Her parents are both home as it is very early in the morning. She can hear their voices drifting up the stairs from the kitchen, the sounds of the refrigerator door being slammed, and the television turned on to the news. At the head of the staircase she closes her eyes, listening and willing her trembling lip to still. She can’t do this if she’s shaking. She can’t perform under any more doubt, or hesitation. She can be strong for the next minute or two. Later, she can break down into a puddle of tears and self-loathing. But right now, she has to focus in order to get it right. That’s what the book says to do. Focus. Right.

She makes her way down the stairs as quietly as possible. She can’t let them hear her. If they do they will speak to her, and if they speak to her she will give in to the reluctance and waver, and tell them everything. They’ll want to protect her and take her away, just like she wants them to, only without her.

They’re sitting at the small round table in the kitchen, both of them turned to the small television sitting on the counter, watching a story unfold on the news, something about the stream of senseless violence that has broken out recently. They’re fixated as they sip their coffees, so this is the perfect time to do it. 

She raises her wand… and then lowers it. Her hand is shaking so badly, and she is close to tears again. She thinks of Ron, of Harry, and slowly raises her wand again, this time unwavering as she points it at her father’s head. After a deep breath she mumbles the spell, and watches as an almost invisible streak of smoke emits from the end of her wand to the back of his skull, disappearing around and into his ears. Not wanting a moment to pass, to allow herself to think on what just happened, she does the same to her mother, and gets the same result. 

Then she holds her breath and ducks out of sight, listening with eyes shut so tight they start to burn. It’s silent for too long, long enough for her heart to start pounding in her chest, and a whimper to almost escape her lips.

But then they start talking again, and their voices seem… different, somehow. She hears them talking about a flight, and how they can’t miss it, and she wants to cry from relief, and sadness, that it worked. It worked!

Their voices are coming closer, and she knows it is time to leave. The hardest part is over, and now their lives are theirs alone. She doesn’t belong here anymore.   
She tiptoes to the front door, making sure they don’t see as she opens it wide enough to shimmy through. She closes the door behind her with a faint click and lets out the breath she has been holding. But there is no time to contemplate; She had booked their plane tickets to leave in one hour, which means they are inside right now grabbing their luggage they thought they had packed, and are about to rush out the door to make it on time to the airport. She planned it this way so, instead of her leaving them there, she can watch them go, on their way to safety.

She hurries to the side of the house and hides behind a bush, just before her mum and dad exit the house, lock the door, and hurry to the car parked in the driveway. She watches them, knowing that nowhere in their minds are they thinking of her, worrying about her, wondering what she is doing and if she is alright, well fed, or happy.

She doesn’t want to cry; she wants to look at them, remember them, even if they don’t know her. For a second she has an idea, to pretend to bump into them before they get into the car, as if she were a neighbor on the street, strike up a quick conversation, just to see. But that would be too painful, she thinks. She’ll never recover from it.

And then they are gone, driving away, and she is left there on her own, hiding behind a bush beside her own home. She backs out onto the sidewalk and looks up at it, up to her bedroom window and no longer recognizes the curtains. That is enough to make her turn on her heel and walk down the street. She could apparate from the garden, out of sight, but she has to leave. Now. 

So she walks, then jogs, and full out runs to the nearest side street, and by the time she stops tears are running down her face. She bends over with hands on both knees, but she can’t be alone for this part, she can’t break down in the middle of a side street by herself. She has to believe she did the right thing. She has to tell someone, and hear it from them that she is still clever, and smart- the brightest witch they’ve ever known. 

She thinks of Ron again- of his warm and welcoming home bursting with loud, friendly people; of Harry who will be there in just a few days, expecting her to help him continue this difficult task he was thrust into. She may be leaving home, but she has a second one, she still has a family. And that is where she needs to be. With them… with him- Ron, her best friend, her something more… 

She sucks in a shuddering breath, forcing herself to keep it together, just for a few moments longer. Without bothering to wipe her eyes or nose, she stands up straight and flicks her wand, disappearing with a definitive crack.  
XXXX

As always, thank you for reading!


	2. Falling Apart

**Chapter Two: Falling Apart**

Falling apart doesn’t happen in an instant. It may seem, to some, that the idea of breaking down is like that of breaking a window with a brick. The glass shatters, there’s a huge mess, and it’s shocking - a jolt to the system. The brick is a tangible thing, something solid to point at and say ‘This is the thing that caused it’.

But falling apart is a gradual thing. And when you hit the ground, finally, it does feel like it’s an all of a sudden occurrence, but really so much has led up to this moment. It’s only afterward, when you’re standing on shaky legs and can breathe again, that you are able to look straight up, yet not even see where you began before you started falling. How long has it been? How far? How can you tell? You’re amidst a pile of glass and it’s woken you up with it’s pricks and deep cuts, and the only thing you can do is move on, in another direction.

In her mind she is falling, and can see the ground rushing up at her, and she knows it’s coming. She can’t stop it, but she can slow it down... Even now she tries to control the uncontrollable.

She lands on soft grass atop solid earth. There is a warm breeze on her exposed arms, the sun is hot on her head, and tall grass tickles her toes through her sandals. She is in the middle of a bright green field, speckled with yellow, with trees far off to the left, and the shimmer of a pond to her right. Straight ahead is The Burrow, with its crooked rooftops and slanted walls, and multiple chimneys- two of which are blowing smoke in her direction. She sniffs and the smell of dirt, fresh air, and chimney smoke fill her up, and she smiles through the tears that are still streaked on her cheeks.

There is movement as the back door opens and Ron’s head pokes out. She inhales sharply. Her chest swarms with a prickly feeling that spreads down to her belly, making her shiver despite the summer heat. The rest of him comes out of the house, wearing flannels and a grey vest, and trainers without socks. His hair is a fiery mess atop his head- he must have woken up and hadn’t bothered to get dressed so he could wait for her. She sighs at the sight of him, willing herself to wait for him to at least say hello before she bursts into tears.

He doesn’t call out her name as he approaches. There is only a smile, wide enough, crooked enough, to make her feel even more awful that, in a matter of seconds, he’ll no longer look at her with joy, but with concern or - worse - pity.

She can’t do this. He looks genuinely happy to see her, as if he’s been waiting for longer than an a few minutes, or an hour, or a week. How can she do this to him now? How can she use him as a shoulder to cry on, especially the second she arrives, after not seeing him for weeks? What kind of impression will that make? Will he think she is weak? Unstable? A burden? He’s seen her cry before, but the ache in her gut that is pushing against her will to show itself is stronger than ever before.

Perhaps she should have done this in private, in that side street, alone. But her lip is still trembling, even through the smile she forces on her lips, and her hastened wiping of her face makes Ron cock his head and lower his brow. He’s in front of her now, and she ducks her head to hide her swollen eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly. He’s standing within arm’s reach, the smell of toothpaste and _him_ mixes with the grass and dirt and fresh air, and her head is spinning. He sounds like he’s no longer smiling, and she can’t look at him. “Hermione?”

“I’m sorry,” she says, the last syllable out of her mouth is choked. The effort of talking is too much, and uttering those two words has sent her over the edge. A sob escapes, and she feels betrayed by her own body.

“Sorry for what?” Ron steps closer, and she can see him bending, trying to see underneath her shield of hair at her face. His voice raises, panicked. “Hermione, what happened? Are you okay?”

He touches her. A simple gesture of concern: a hand on a shoulder. But the contact sends her falling, as if a brick has struck her in the back, and he catches her in his arms. He lets out a grunt at the unexpected and forceful nature of her embrace, but quickly recovers as his arms wrap around her tightly. Her arms are around his waist, and her face is on his chest. And he’s so solid, and tall, and warm, and _there_. She’s fallen into him, instead of the ground, and she forgets to feel guilty for it.

She could never be like this with Harry, who has actually lost his parents to death. It isn’t the same, she knows that. Yet, even with the knowledge that they are still alive, and where they are headed, the feeling of loss is more intense than she had predicted. And her being the cause of this feeling has thrown her onto an emotional rollercoaster she hadn’t known was possible.  

He’s shushing her, no longer asking questions since she is incapable of speech, and instead continues to press her into his body with both hands on her back, underneath her hair. This is the longest, and closest, she and Ron have ever been in their almost seven years of friendship. He has grown so much, and not just in height. She isn’t sure when it happened, but she can trace it back to sometime after he was poisoned, after they became friends again. He seemed more… remorseful, thoughtful even, then. However, something about him has evolved in their month apart. He is more confident in the way he is holding her, stroking his hands up and down her back, his chin on her head. She’s overwhelmed by her senses filling up with everything about him that she finds herself sniffling, and her crying has stopped to shaking breaths, with intermittent hiccups.

Thinking that he must be wanting an explanation, she pulls away, and instantly regrets the decision when his arms fall to his sides. Then there’s an awkward silence between them when he hands her a cloth from his pocket and she wipes her eyes and blows her nose noisily.

“Er… do you wanna talk about it?”

She glances up at him, seeing him for the first time in this close proximity: His brow is knitted together, cobalt eyes dark with worry, and lips in a straight line. A serious expression in a comical frame of pajamas and unruly hair.

“Can we go somewhere to sit down and talk… privately?” she asks, and watches the tips of his ears turn crimson.

He stammers, and looks to the ground. “Y-Yeah… Um… We can go to the pond… or my room?” His eyes raise to hers, and something in them makes her belly flip.

“Is your mum downstairs? I don’t want her to see me like this.” Her voice is still shaky, on the edge of bursting into another round of tears. She wishes they could just move so she can get this off her chest already.

He seems to understand her choice and looks over his shoulder at his house. “I dunno. She’s been in a right state about this bloody wedding… She won’t let us alone, I know it. But…” His eyes go round as an idea crosses over his face. “We can apparate! They lifted the spell for family. I told dad to include you, and Harry, of course..” His ears go pink again, and she’s reminded again why she loves this family so much.

“Do you want me to take us?” He’s peering at her as if she’ll break, and this is exactly what she had feared. She got herself here just fine, and in a worse off state than she is in right now, so she shakes her head, not wanting to appear completely helpless. “Okay,” he shrugs and takes his wand out the waistband of his flannels. “Land just inside the door, yeah? See you in a second.”

He’s gone. She takes a deep breath, and sends herself to Ron’s bedroom.

His back is to her when she arrives, kicking random objects and clothing under his bed, while frantically trying to fix the quilt on top into a less crumpled fashion. If she were in a better mood she’d reprimand him on his cleanliness, tut her teeth, and shake her head, then ask him how he is able to find anything useful in this mess. But she doesn’t have the energy to be her usual self. She can only sit on his bed as he is making it, not caring if the quilt is flat or not. He takes her cue and sits next to her, too far away- there might as well be a Quidditch Pitch between them, that is how far away he is from her.

She is looking at a rogue quill on the floor, staring at it, thinking, until Ron clears his throat and she’s back in the present.

“I silenced and locked the room. We can talk, if you want.”

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head to clear it unsuccessfully. “I was thinking.”

He shifts closer, his thigh just a centimetre away from hers, and now the space is a quaffle… or a  bludger. She can’t remember much about the sport at the moment.

“Thinking about what, Hermione?” The way he says her name, she can listen to it all day, every day, and that may just be the remedy for everything that is wrong in her world. Listening to him utter her name a thousand times will be her cure...

“My parents,” she says, and has to stop to catch a sob that wants to come loose. She swallows it down. Not now. Not again. She has to tell him everything first.

“Did- Did something happen? Fucking hell…”

“No,” she says too loudly, turning to look at him. “No, nothing like that. They’re safe.”

Their bodies are mirrored; sitting on the bed, feet on the floor, both hands gripping the edge, heads turned to each other. She doesn’t know who is copying who, but it’s okay, this is okay.

“Did you tell them what we’re doing? Did they try to stop you?”

“No, I didn’t tell them,” she clears her throat. “I… I sort of… modified their memories, a bit.”

His face screws up into confusion. “Modified? How?”

“I made it so they don’t… they left to Australia this morning. I made them do it. They didn't have a choice. I... didn’t have a choice.”

“You made them want to move away. That sounds alright. Clever, really.” He is still confused.

“I did more than that,” she mumbles, her lip trembling, and she looks to the floor. “I made them forget about _me_. I gave them false names. I sent them away to a new life without a daughter, without me. And- And-”

His hand is suddenly on hers, his fingers digging underneath her palm to grab hold of her. She gasps on a choking sob and swallows it down, coughing. He slides closer until their thighs are touching, and he pulls her hand with his to his knee. And she fears she might faint from too many emotions swirling and crashing around inside of her.

“And what, Hermione?” he asks quietly.

“And… I may never see them again! If something happens to me-”

“Hermione, don’t.”

“-they’ll never ever know about me! I’ll be forgotten. They’re alive, but it’s like they’re gone, and that’s so unfair because Harry- his parents- I feel awful for feeling this way. I… I’m not sure I did the right thing. Or if I can reverse it. If I even did it properly, or damaged them forever!”

“Hermione!”

She’s crying freely now, her voice loud and hoarse. She’s squeezing his hand and doesn’t realize it until he squeezes back, making her turn to him again. His expression is fierce, almost angry, and she’s taken aback by his reaction. Perhaps she really did make a mistake, altering their minds like that...

“Hermione,” he says more calmly, as she takes in shallow breaths. Their eyes are connected, keeping her from crawling under the bed and covering herself with whatever nonsense he keeps down there. “I need you to listen to me. Can you do that? Cause I don’t want to say this all again.”

She nods, wiping her cheeks with the cloth that is still clutched in her other hand. He heaves a sigh and his fingers find their way between hers. She struggles not to look away and down at their hands, especially when his thumb grazes her knuckles and a tremor goes through her like nothing else.

“Go on,” she manages to say, desperate for him to speak again, to hear his voice, deep and reassuring. He’s never held back before, when telling her off or speaking his mind. She trusts him to be truthful with her, to tell her if she’s mucked it all up.

“You’re… you’re like this… perfect… person, yeah? I mean, you’re right brilliant, everyone knows that. And it’s true! You know loads more than Harry and I combined. Let me finish… So, right, bloody brilliant, best witch ever.” He is talking fast, and Hermione is biting her tongue, wanting to interject, to tell him he didn’t have to tell her all that. But she’s so hungry for his words, his voice, and he’s saying all these nice things…

“But sometimes you can be daft as hell.”

“Oi!” She tries to take her hand back, but he holds on tight, pulling her closer. The air changes between them when her other hand is on his thigh to keep from falling. She yanks it back, her cheeks aflame, and clears her throat. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to be so… forthright.”

“I told you to let me finish,” he mumbles and readjusts their hands to settle on his shin as he turns his body toward her, one leg bent on the bed between them. She almost smiles at the fact that holding her hand has become non-negotiable, this normal sort of thing they are now doing. Friends usually hold hands and tell each other they’re brilliant… right?

“Okay, you’re not daft, but you’re bloody wrong about a lot of things you just said. First off, I reckon I’d feel about the same kind of awful if I’d done that, so don’t go feeling bad about it. It must’ve been hard for you to do that… twice. And as far as whatever you did going wrong, obviously it didn’t. You said they left this morning, yeah?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then they were fine, and will be when you get them back, after this is all over.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Yeah, I do,” he says so emphatically, and she wants to correct him, because how can he know for sure? “I know, because I know you, and you would never, ever, do something that risky and complicated if you didn’t think it was necessary, or possible. Do y’know what I mean?”

She chews her lip, not knowing what to say. He has a point; she’d never have done that if, on some level, she wasn’t confident in her abilities. But there is always that chance, later on, for things to prove otherwise.

“And that rubbish about you not-  if something were to happen. Bollocks. I won’t hear of it. Nope.” He shakes his head so fervently his hair drops in his face and he pushes it back in frustration.

“But, Ron-”

“No, Hermione... I can’t, alright?”

He’s staring with a steady gaze, and she can feel the intensity of those few words go straight through her, into her heart. The way he’s looking at her, she has to resist the urge to hug him again.

She sighs and nods, deciding to drop the subject. “So you really think I did the right thing?”

“Yeah, I do. I think it’s brilliant. And like I said, when this is all over you will find them and set them right again. I… I can help you. If you want me to, of course.”

“You will?”

He shrugs, and his hand twitches in hers. “Yeah, for, like, moral support, or whatever. I won’t be any help with the spell, but I can keep you company. Don’t want you going alone, yeah?”

She smiles a real smile for the first time today, and grips his hand tighter. He smiles back, and already she can see a new direction, a way to move on after her breakdown. She chose to fall into the right place, with the right person. She thinks she can manage whatever came at her- at them - as long as he was there…

“I’d like that. Thank you,” she marvels at him, stunned by his apparent maturity. Is this the same Ron?

“No problem,” he shrugs again, as if he didn’t just say something to unfurl her heart strings. He glances down at their hands, and her eyes follow. His long, freckled fingers and her own small tan ones, stacked on top of one another, palms pressed together, wrists touching. It feels so very intimate to her, yet friendly, and confusing. They look back up at the same time, catching each other’s eyes, and then looking away. It is strange and awkward again, but she doesn’t care. Her guts are still in a knot, but her heart is singing, and her hand is still in Ron’s grasp, warming her entire body…

Suddenly there is a banging on the door and Ginny’s voice booms from the other side, telling him to open up. Ron jumps away from her, his hand going with him, and she stands up, fixing her clothes. Nothing at all even happened, but she feels like something might have. Although, her emotions are all over the place, and she is in a vulnerable state, so she might have just imagined the energy between them, mistaken it for something other than concern for a friend...

“Bloody hell,” Ron mutters under his breath, launching to his feet and, in two strides, is at the door, yanking it open. “Yeah?” he barks at his sister who pushes him aside, then stops in her tracks.

“Hermione! I didn’t know you were here! Ron is always hogging you and Harry, I swear to Merlin.” Ginny rushes into the room and grabs her in a hug, then steps back. “Mum says breakfast is ready. Come on, Hermione.” She turns to Ron and says, “You should get dressed. Mum already has a list of chores for us to do and you won’t have time to change later.”

Ron grumbles something under his breath as Ginny leaves, bounding down the stairs. She’s gone, leaving Hermione and Ron alone once more.

“I’ll see you down there,” Ron says to her, scratching the back of his neck, offering a small smile. When she doesn’t move he walks up to her and puts a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be okay. You’ll see.”

She smiles up at him and, before she loses her nerve, stands on her toes and kisses his cheek. His skin, rough with faint stubble, scratches her chin as she drops back down.

“Thanks for, you know, talking. It helped,” she says quietly.

When he doesn’t reply and merely stares down at her, she’s embarrassed and steps around him to leave the room. However, on her way down the stairs she recalls his face just seconds ago: shocked, a slight grin, and red-tipped ears...

XXXXX

Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Worry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn’t meant for this chapter to be this long. I wanted each one in this story to be on the shorter side, but hopefully by the end you’ll see why I couldn’t shorten it.

**Chapter Three: Worry**

Worry is one of those things that permeate all other feelings and thoughts. No matter the cause, it has a way of consuming your brain, of taking over and suddenly all sorts of scenarios are playing out, just behind the eyelids, making them real enough for you to believe the worst is possible because you’ve seen it so vividly.

Worrying stems from a negative state of mind, from a place of deep insecurity, combined with actual and potential problems. So the worry escalates because it has a tangible reason, and the more serious the situation, the worse the worry. Laying awake before the sun has the chance to come up, going over and over in your mind all the things that can go wrong and possibly harm or kill those you care about, or yourself, is a perfect example of such worry. There is a perfectly reasonable explanation for it to eat away at your consciousness, so you let it, thinking you’re merely being logical- trying to prepare for the worst. But really, all you’re doing is letting the worry consume you.

All day and night, it’s there- as she changes bedsheets for the third time this week, folds napkins, wipes down tables, and helps fold laundry –accumulating into a tangle of nightmares, vivid daydreams, and passing thoughts that are so dark and scary she is grateful for the fact she is never left alone for one second of the day.

Mrs. Weasley has made it obvious that she is deliberately trying her best to corner her and Ron separately, asking pointed questions. She has also kept them so busy they hardly have a moment to talk, especially after Ron pulled her away to the attic to show her his… project: a disgusting looking ghoul with the signature Weasley hair wearing Ron’s pajamas. She was revolted, yet proud of Ron for thinking of something so clever in order to evade suspicion if anyone were to come around asking about his absence from Hogwarts. She had only a minute to praise him, her nose wrinkling from the putrid smell, when they were called down to lunch by his mum.

Now, as she lays awake atop her cot in Ginny’s room, a week into her stay at the Burrow, she fears that she won’t have enough energy to do what needs to be done the next day. With everything going on, and not having anyone to talk to about any of it, she has laid awake every night, well past bedtime, thinking and planning on her own, then waking too early to repeat the same cycle of thoughts. The night before, Ron, with his own anxious expression, had asked her quickly and discreetly during dinner whether or not she had any plans, and she told him she wanted to save the discussion for when Harry was there.

But now, after another sleepless night, her brain bursting with ideas, information, and theories, she wonders how they are ever going to be able to do such a thing with so many people about, not to mention Mrs. Weasley will undoubtedly try even harder to glean information from Harry as well.

And then there is Ron; She can still feel his thumb grazing her knuckles, and the scratchiness of his chin against her skin when she acted impulsively and kissed his cheek… but not knowing for certain where things stood between them just added onto her mountain of anxiety. That moment feels like a decade ago now, and between tormenting herself with thoughts about Harry and Horcruxes, and thinking she had concocted the connection with Ron in her mind, she feels she is going mad.

As the sun starts to peek over the horizon, washing the room in a dark amber light, she sighs and flips the covers off of her tired body, and rolls out of bed. With an envying glance toward a still sleeping Ginny, she slips her feet into her slippers and leaves the room to go to the loo. Seeing a light on under the bathroom door, she waits, listening to the water from the tap turn on and then off, some shuffling, and then the door opens. Ron steps out and she is immediately fully awake. He’s blinking at her, surprised.

“What’re you doing up?” he says, his voice scratchy, then lowering to a whisper. “Did you even sleep?”

“I did… A little.’

He steps away from the doorway and she approaches, expecting him to move further away to allow her through, but he’s still blocking half of the entrance so she stops, huffing impatience.

“A little?” His face is full of concern, and she can feel it- the focus of his gaze and judgment are solely on her, making her squirm under his furrowed brow and tired, yet watchful, eyes.

She looks away. “I’m fine.” Then she realizes something and looks back at him defiantly. “What are _you_ doing up so early? You aren’t normally awake for another two hours.”

It’s his turn to look away. He leans against the doorway, scratching his neck. “Can’t lay there anymore… thinking, you know?”

“Wow…”

“What?”

She shakes her head and smiles a little. “Nothing, I was just doing the same thing.”

“Thinking about tomorrow?”

“About… everything.”

Her eyes flicker up to his at the last word, allowing more meaning to radiate from it, and hoping - yet at the same time not hoping - he catches on. He doesn’t seem to understand because he merely shrugs and rubs his face.

“I’m so bloody tired. We need to get some sleep tonight if we’re gonna be any good tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yes, of course,” she says and shifts from one foot to the other, glancing around the hallway, hoping no one else wakes to interrupt them. This is the longest they’ve talked, unremitting, for an entire week. “I don’t know how I’ll manage; it may be worse tonight than any other. Do you think we should take something to help fall sleep?”

“Nah, anything you take will just make you groggy the next day.”

“I’ll feel better once Harry gets here,” she says quietly. Ron grunts, then pushes off the doorway and runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end.

“Definitely,” he says through a big yawn, his arms stretching out at his sides. Then, “Well, I’ll see you later.”

“Wait,” she says, a bit too loudly, as he turns to leave, reaching out to touch his arm, her fingertips trailing along his forearm, across his faint scares from fifth year. “Can we talk later? I might sleep better if you and I talked about it- about tomorrow, I mean. Alone?”

He hesitates, takes a step toward her, then stops and crosses his arms against his chest. She doesn’t understand what just happened, and before she can ask they hear sounds coming from his parents’ room.

His eyebrows raise and his arms lower to his sides. “Yeah, sure… We can’t while mum is awake. Tonight, around midnight? Everyone’s asleep by then.” A door opens in the distance, and Ron rushes to her. His chest bumps hers and his hand holds her elbow as he lowers his mouth to her ear to whisper, “Kitchen- midnight. Wear shoes and a jumper.”

Before she can nod or catch her breath he is backing away from her and clambering down the stairs, two at a time.

“Good morning, Hermione, dear, are you alright?”

The question comes from Mrs. Weasley who is suddenly standing behind her, startling her into movement. She steps backward into the loo and says, “Sorry, I thought I’d forgotten something, but I have it, so it’s alright. Good morning. I’ll be right out.” With a wide smile, she closes the door on Mrs. Weasley’s curious face. She slumps against the wood with  a sigh and closed eyes, desperately trying to grasp onto the receding sensation of Ron being so close, his fingers grasping her elbow, and spearmint-scented breath on her neck…

XX

The moon is bright in the cloudless night sky, illuminating the bedroom with just enough light to glance at her watch and see that it is close to midnight. Ginny’s soft snores finally fill her ears, and assuming everyone else must be asleep by now, she carefully extracts herself from the cot, grabs a jumper from a chair and pulls it over her head. She carries her trainers in her hands as she tiptoes out into the hallway and down the stairs.

Except for the sounds of old wood settling, and crickets with their loud chirping outside, the house is dark and quiet without the constant footsteps and loud voices. She accidentally steps on a loose floorboard while crossing the living room and freezes, cringing as her heart pounds in her chest.

“Hey,” Ron hisses from her left. She sees his tall shadow leaning into the living room, waving a hand at her. With a sigh of relief that he was able to make it downstairs unnoticed, she enters the kitchen.

“How long have you been down here?” she whispers as she sits in a chair to put on her trainers. Ron grabs a half-eaten sandwich from the table and takes a bite. He’s wearing the same flannel bottoms and trainers he wore when she had first arrived at the Burrow, but this time with a forest green one-size-too-small long-sleeved top over his vest. She tries to concentrate on her laces as he sits next to her, his long legs spread out in front of him, leaning back as he talks through chewing.

“I dunno, half an hour? I was hungry.”

She rolls her eyes, then stands, watching him devour the last bite, his cheeks moving around his face animatedly before swallowing. Shaking her head to clear it, she tugs on the hem of the red jumper she took from Ginny’s room. “So where are we going that I need shoes and a jumper?”

He wipes his hands on his flannels and stands up, brushing crumbs off his shirt. “Even with the house empty it can feel sort of cramped, so I go for walks sometimes at night.” He looks embarrassed to admit this; he scratches his neck, regarding her nervously. “Unless you wanna stay here- or go upstairs, like before?”

Her face feels warm as she remembers “before”, and is tempted to pick the latter. However, there is something about accompanying him on a walk outside - a thing he normally does on his own and is inviting her to do with him - that intrigues her.

“No, we can walk. It may help, you know, make us sleepy.”

“Right, yeah,” he says, nodding as if just remembering the reason for this meeting. “Come on.”

The exit the kitchen on tip toes. She closes the door quietly behind her, and takes a deep breath of fresh air before following him down the stairs and onto the grass. Although it is mid-July, the summer night is surprisingly cool as she hugs her body against the breeze that lifts the tendrils of hair around her face.

“I like your jumper,” Ron says, halfway to where she thinks they’re headed: the pond.

Surprised, she looks down and says, “It’s Ginny’s,” because it is, and she is only capable of stating facts at the present moment.

“Oh. Right.” There is little space between them as they walk in silence, until a minute later when she sees him turn to her out of the corner of her eye, and, with a breathy undertone, adds, “It looks good- on you, I mean.”

 _Did he really just say that?_ Her brain is screaming. Flailing, like the wings of an excited hippogriff. She doesn’t dare look at him for her face is hot, and suddenly the jumper feels at least ten pounds heavier. She adjusts the collar and rubs her arms, biting the insides of her cheeks before realizing she hadn’t replied.

“Um, thanks.”

“Sure.”

They reach the edge of the pond and Ron walks ahead onto the short wooden pier jutting out into the water. She steps onto it and, not expecting it to move under her feet, cries out and grabs his arm.

“Sorry, should’ve told you it’s a bit rocky,” he says with a laugh as she takes another step, her fingers digging into his bicep.

“Sorry,” she says with an embarrassed laugh. “It’s not going to collapse, is it?” He says it won’t,  then keeps walking with her holding onto him until they reach the end, and he drops down to sit with his legs dangling over the side. She sighs with relief after sitting down, the threat of falling no longer an issue. She snatches her hand back from his arm and, feeling how close they are, her thigh practically resting on his, she moves away slightly.

“It’s nice out here,” she says, almost to herself, then hears Ron hum his agreement.

“I usually come alone, but I thought you’d like it, too.” He hunches over to prop his elbows on his knees. She glances at him as he’s moving; It is dark, but the moon is bright enough for her to make out half his face as he stares down into the water, a small smile playing on his lips. Then he’s suddenly looking at her, and she’s clearing her throat and staring down into the moonlit water.

“I do, thank you,” she replies, and it all feels too formal and polite. “You’ve changed,” she finds herself talking without thinking. She expects him to be offended, but instead he lets out a snort.

“So have you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you’re … quiet. Not used to it. I guess that’s thanks to Mum not letting us alone, but I dunno... Anyway, how have I changed? Since when?” He is looking at her again, so she looks back, and she doesn’t want to do this now. She doesn’t want to talk about feelings and the past and what any of it means.

“You’re more confident, I suppose,” she says thoughtfully, peering at him in order to gauge the right response that will veer this conversation back to safer footing. “There’s also the fact that we haven’t rowed in about a week.” She feels tension being released when he nods and smiles, showing his teeth.

“That is true. Also thanks to Mum. We haven’t had much time or opportunity. Are you disappointed?”

“Not exactly,” she says and leans back to plant her palms on the cool wood behind her. “How about you?”

“Oh, yeah, I miss you tearing into me, giving me the what for. You know, the good ‘ol days.”

They laugh, and he mimics her position, and she swears he’s moved closer.

“I’m sure, sooner or later, you’ll do or say something to make me go mad.”

“I’ll try my best. Just to keep things level.”

 He nudges her elbow with his; her arm jerks inwards, causing her to almost fall on her back. She catches herself and sits up to smack his arm. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

“I’m a man of my word,” he laughs and sits up, rubbing his arm. “Blimey, you’re stronger than you look.”

“Don’t forget it.”

“Not likely.”

The light-hearted moment only lasts for another minute before she sighs, thinking again about the upcoming mission- not only the one to get Harry safely to The Burrow, but the one very important big one looming in the distance.

“Ron?”

“Yeah?”

She takes a deep breath and, staring at her short fingernails, says in a shaky voice, “Promise me something.”

He sighs heavily, then turns his body toward her, his leg bent in front of him. She has no choice but to face him then, and his expression is a mix of determination and inclination.

“Anything.”

His reply takes her by surprise. “I haven’t even said what I wanted.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? I know what you’re gonna say. You’re gonna tell me to stay alive, to help keep Harry alive. But I’ve already promised that. And I’ll also promise to keep _you_ alive. You’ve made that same promise to us, haven’t you?”

“Well, yes, but-“

“You don’t have to ask, Hermione. We got each other’s backs. Always have. And when Harry gets here you can tell us all the brilliant ideas going on up in there,” he swirls a finger in the direction of her head, and she rolls her eyes, “and we’ll do what we always do. We just survive.”

“It won’t be that easy, Ron.” She brushes hair from her face in frustration. “If we even manage to escape from the Dursleys tomorrow, getting Harry here won’t be like anything else we’ve done. We’ll be separated, for one thing.”

“I know, but we have the Order with us,” he says, and she wants desperately to believe the conviction in his voice. “And Moody, Kingsley, Tonks – they’re Aurors, so they’re trained for this sort of thing, aren’t they? I don’t like being separated, either, but at least we have them on our side. Besides, with the change of plans, strategically, it might work out that we won’t have to fight.”

“I hope you’re right. I just have a bad feeling. And then there are the Horcruxes…”

He snorts. “Where Harry is involved, there’s always gonna be a bad feeling. The bloke can’t cut a damn break.”

“You know he’s going to hate this plan.”

“Oh, for sure. Without a doubt,” he says with a smirk. “He’ll tell us to bugger off, and then try to fly away with his owl and trunk under both arms, the barmy git.”

“Well,” she says, sitting up straight and locking glaring eyes with Ron, “we’ll just have to make him see reason. Or else I’ll rip the hair from his head myself.”

His smirk widens into a smile, and he’s staring, and when he doesn’t reply right away she starts to feel self-conscious.

“What?” she asks, crossing her arms defensively. “I mean it, if he even tries to tell us we can’t help him, then… then I’ll do it.” Ron is still staring with that same smile, and she huffs impatiently. “What?”

He shakes his head and works to straighten his mouth into a more serious line. “Nothing. I agree. Ripping his hair out- all of it.”

“I’m being serious, Ron. I just really want him here, safely.”

He takes a deep breath, then looks away at the water again. “Yeah, I know. You’re not the only one.”

“At least after this he won’t have to live with the Dursleys ever gain, those awful people.” She shakes her head, thinking of how badly Harry has been treated his entire life. “He deserves so much more than that. He deserves to be with people who love him.”

Ron is nodding, gripping the edge of the pier, his smile gone. “Yeah.”

“Did I say something wrong?” She doesn’t understand the sudden change in mood. They were just conspiring to get Harry back, with whatever means necessary, and Ron was right there with her, smiling and agreeing, and looking at her with such awe… and now he’s somewhat sullen and removed.

“No, ‘course not,” he says offhandedly, then gets to his feet, yawning. “It’s getting late. We should at least try to get some sleep tonight.”

“Ron?”

“I’m getting tired. I think you were right, talking has helped.” He offers her his hand, which she takes. He pulls her up to her feet, and hesitates with his hand still in hers. “Do you need help walking back?”

The pier isn’t long, but she takes her time, savoring the grip of his large hand encased in hers, squeezing each time she wobbles because of the teetering pier. Then they are on steady ground, and she stifles a groan when he lets her go before making their way across the grass toward the house.

Too soon they are at the back door and sneaking back inside. “Thank you for tonight,” she whispers, then yawns as she toes her trainers off. “I think I’m a bit sleepy myself.”

“That’s good,’ he says, his voice deep and low, now that they’re within hearing range of the house’s occupants. He also takes off his trainers, and now they’re standing in the middle of the dark kitchen, holding onto shoes, neither one making a move toward the stairs.

“We should-“

“-go to sleep. Yeah,” he interrupts, yet merely shifts from one foot to another.

Concerned at his troubled expression, she moves closer until she can see a faint blush across his cheeks. “Was there something else?”

He swallows and says, “Do you think you could promise something else?”

“Of course, what is it?” she asks, peering up at him, her worry increasing with every second.

“Just… tomorrow, after we change into Harry… could you, like, not look – or touch – anything?”

Her face must match Ginny’s jumper, and she starts sputtering. “I- Well, I- I didn’t even _think_ of that. Oh god, I’d never – yes. I can definitely make that promise. Blimey…”

“Bloody hell, don’t go thinking of it now,” he whispers harshly, panic on his face as she scrunches up her nose. “I shouldn’t have brought it up, damn it.”

“Ron, I have no desire to look at nor touch Harry’s bits whatsoever. This is merely a strategy to distract any Death Eaters away from the real Harry. It’s part of the plan, that’s all.” He seems so relieved by her words that his shoulders slump and his face splits into a grin as she is talking. “Besides, did you see the amount of Polyjuice Moody had with him? I bet there will be enough left over for us to nab before we leave on our own.”

“Brilliant idea,” he whispers, then crosses his arms and looks down at the floor. “Well… good night, then.”

But she has another idea. It may be the lack of sleep, the late hour and darkness of night, or misconstruing the looks and that compliment about the jumper clouding her judgment, but for the first time in days her worry has lessened just standing here with him. And she fears once they separate she won’t be able to sleep after all.

“Ron?”

“Yeah?” He looks up quickly, a hopeful look in his eyes that she wonders is simply the shadows playing tricks on her.

“Do you think, if it’s alright with you, that I could, perhaps, maybe-“

“Do you want to sleep in my room?” His eyes are wide enough for her not to mistake the look on his face for anything other than shock and embarrassed. “That is what you were gonna say, right? I’m not trying to get you in my room or anything. You can have Harry’s cot. I mean, it’s not a big deal or anything.” He shrugs and sniffs, adopting a more casual stance.

She blinks rapidly as the words spill from out of his mouth, not sure how to take them. But he’s invited her to sleep in his room, so she nods. “Right, it’s nothing really. It’s not as if we’ve never slept in the same room before. And I can be back in Ginny’s before anyone’s awake. It’s the only logical solution I can think of for both of us to get any sleep. For the mission.”

“Right, logical. The mission.”

With that he leads the way upstairs and she only steps where he does since he knows every board that creaks. And then they are in his room and he’s cast a silencing spell.

“Just in case you snore,” he says as he unfolds the cot, and then grabs an extra pillow and the quilt from his bed.

“I do not snore!”

He gives her a look and laughs. Then, turning back to his bed, he pulls the long-sleeved shirt over his head, the vest underneath clinging and revealing a large portion of his long, freckled back. She starts coughing.

“Are you okay?”

She looks away and nods. “Just a tickle. I’ll be fine. We should get to sleep.” It’s warm in his room, and the jumper she’s wearing is making her feel like furnace is inside her torso.

He shrugs and turns around again to place his wand on the small table between his bed and the cot. While his back is turned she struggles to take the jumper off as quickly as possible, panicking as she feels her stomach being exposed. When her head pops out of the confines of the wool, she sees Ron staring at her, frozen.

“Sorry, I-“

“It’s hot in here,” she mutters as an explanation, pulling her t-shirt down over her belly and patting down her static-induced, frizzy hair. Avoiding his confused expression, she places her wand next to Ron’s and lies down on the cot, covering herself up to her neck. Ron then lies on his bed, only a few feet away. He blows out the one candle and the room, not facing the moon and its natural light, is thrown into darkness.

She can hear him breathing, and then there are bedsprings bouncing as he moves, and his voice is clear and low in the dark: “I swear I didn’t see anything. Nothing… showed, except your, er, belly button. But we’ve all got those, right? You don’t have to feel embarrassed, is all I’m saying.”

She closes her eyes, mortification enveloping her insides and bursting through her pores. Yet, through the heat rising in her body she smiles at Ron’s attempt to bring levity to an awkward situation.

“I thought your back was turned.”

“I didn’t know- I wasn’t trying to-.”

“I know,” she interrupts, giggling at his stuttering. “It’s okay. Just… please stop talking.”

“…Hermione?”

She sighs. “Yes, Ron?”

“We’ll be okay, yeah?”

She turns on her side to face him, and her nose digs into his pillow- the smell of his shampoo and breath seeps into her nostrils, and she breathes deeply, closing her eyes and feeling dizzy. She isn’t sure if he is talking about the mission the next day, hunting for Horcruxes, or something else…

“Yeah… I think so. Like you said, we have each other.” She burrows down into the cot, half her face covered in his used pillow, her body wrapped in his quilt, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knows she’s behaving like a lovesick puppy, but she doesn’t care. Not right now. If they die tomorrow, she wants this to be the last good memory: His smell, his voice, his room- Ron, within arm’s reach, breathing and alive. “Get some sleep, Ron. See you in the morning.”

“Okay… G’nite.”

“Good night, Ron.”

XXXX

As always reviews are very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you haven’t noticed, this story has a theme where each chapter will explore a different emotion. I’m using this story to sort of get through my own personal thoughts and applying them to the DH storyline, hence the beginning paragraphs. Just some therapeutic fanfic- no big deal, right?


	4. Ephemeral Happiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this chapter was going to be about regret, but I wanted to explore a more positive feeling, especially at this point in the story, with them at the wedding. Last the book shows is Harry seeing them dancing, then later when Harry looks around at the party there is no mention of them, but of other characters, then he’s talking about Dumbledore. What happened over all this time? It is a perfect “missing moments” opportunity if I’ve ever seen one…

Instead of waiting to finally reach this impossible goal of eternal euphoria, happiness should be viewed as a compilation of moments. Moments that warm your heart, make it skip, and fill it to the brim. You collect them over a lifetime, keep them with you as a slideshow of memories to look back on and remember that you have the ability to be genuinely happy, even for a minute. The more you seek them out, and cherish them, the more you will obtain, so that when the inevitable awful and tragic things happen, when the world tries to break you and knock you down with the force like that of a reducto spell, like a dementor wanting to suck out every bit of those moments you’ve taken so long to acquire, you have an arsenal of happiness waiting to be used, to fight back.

Hermione is standing in front of the full length mirror in Ginny’s bedroom. Because of the sleakeasy potion in her hair, heels that pinch her toes, and a face covered in make-up that she let Ginny put on her, she doesn’t feel or look like herself. And she isn’t entirely sure if that is a good or bad thing.

She has already made up her mind to be happy today. She is glad Bill and Fleur have found each other, and are making their union more permanent. She has never been to a wizarding wedding, so she is also excited to witness that, knowing it must be even more magical than described in books.

Then there is the dress she bought especially for this occasion. Hermione isn’t much into frilly things, but weeks earlier, when she told her mum about the wedding, her mum had insisted on taking her to the shops.

_“Oh, honey! Look at that smile… So, who is he? Have I met him?” her mother had exclaimed after Hermione had tried the dress on, staring into a tri-fold mirror in the back of a shop, surrounded by other dresses she had tried on and hated. She was startled by the question, and blushed as Ron’s name, face, and voice flashed across her mind in immediate and silent reply._

_“No one, of course,” she had answered flippantly, looking down at the dress, admiring the color and the way it fit just perfectly. But when she glanced up, her mother was nodding and smiling knowingly, yet thankfully left the matter alone, only stating very firmly that she must get the dress, no doubt about it._

Wearing the dress now, on the day it was intended for, with her mum miles away, oblivious to what her daughter is doing or feeling, or even existing, she wonders if she had been honest, if she had told her about Ron… what advice would her mum had given her? Would she be any better at knowing what to do about it now? Will she ever get the chance to ask? And now, with the regret of not opening up to her mother, she tries desperately to not let the bitterness and sadness overshadow the memory of when she let her mum buy her this dress...

She brushes both hands down over the folds of the skirt that stops just at her knees. The fabric is so soft it flutters through her fingers, making it look and feel as if she is running her hands through a vast, yet small, lilac ocean. She sighs and adjusts the straps on her shoulders, and taps her beaded bag against her thigh nervously. She forces a smile as Ginny approaches from behind.

“I love this dress, Hermione. It’s like it was made for you.”

She watches her own head shake in protest as the false smile spreads into a genuine one, pleased with the compliment even though she feels it’s undeserved.

“You don’t think it’s too much?”

“No, I think it’s perfect.”

But just then an older woman whom she had only met today, Ginny’s Aunt Muriel, comes into the room holding a sparkling tiara in her shaky, leathery-looking hands. She takes one look at Hermione, asks if she’s the muggle-born, and then loudly criticizes her posture and ‘skinny ankles’.

She is shocked, her cheeks feel hot, and she is about to give this woman a piece of her mind when Ginny throws her aunt a mean glare then looks back at Hermione’s scowl in the mirror.

“Don’t think on it for one minute,” she whispers in Hermione’s ear. “She’s a mean old bat to everyone.” Then, more loudly and with a broad smile: “Like I said- perfect! Go on out, I’ll see you in the tent.” With a wink Ginny hustles a grateful Hermione out into the hallway, shutting the door before her Aunt Muriel can get another word in.

After years of teasing in primary school and at Hogwarts, and going through hell and back with her friends, her skin is too thick to take something like this seriously. However, after shaking her hands out at her sides, she finds herself squaring her shoulders and rolling her ankles before descending the stairs, careful not to trip and fall in her new heels.

Outside the weather is as flawless as it can be for a wedding. The sky is a brilliant blue with only a few wispy clouds here and there; the sun is bright and there are butterflies and bees floating and buzzing along the top of the grass. She sees Fred, George, Ron, and a red-headed boy she knows is supposed to be Harry, up ahead at the opening of tent, and hurries over to them, eager for the wedding to begin.

Ron was saying something to the other boys, but stops mid-sentence as she draws nearer. “Wow,” he says, quickly taking in her face and hair, then roaming down to her dress and feet, and back up again. “You look great!”

In the space of exactly one second her heart skips and her stomach flips, but before the effects of his praise can reach her face and voice, she replies smoothly, “Always the tone of surprise.”

She mentions what his Aunt Muriel said about her, and he tells her the same thing as Ginny, but coming from him she feels immensely better somehow. And soon they are all laughing as Ron, George, and Fred regale Hermione and Harry with hilarious stories about their Uncle Bilius. That is until a familiar voice interrupts her giddy, light-hearted mood, making her forget how to speak. Viktor Krum is there, telling her she looks wonderful, and it is all she can do to not look at Ron’s face. She is flattered, of course, but is so caught up with not showing it, not wanting Ron to believe for even a second that she has any feelings toward Viktor, that she stumbles over what she hopes is a formal enough greeting, dropping her bag on the floor in the process.

Ron asks him what he is doing there, and she wants to scold him for how rude he is, but she can’t help but wonder if the jealousy he had over Viktor taking her to the Yule Ball all those years ago is still an ongoing issue. He’d never said outright the real reason why his opinion of Viktor changed so drastically, but one can only assume… However, there was the whole Lavender situation, and any feelings he might have had towards her were never revealed afterwards. They just carried on being friends, which she is grateful for, but now…

Ron is still surly as Harry takes Viktor away into the tent. A heavy awkwardness settles between the four of them in the minute following the reunion. Fred and George are uncharacteristically quiet, glancing between Ron and Hermione with identical smirks. She clears her throat and chances a look up at Ron. She catches his eye and smiles, as if asking if they are still on good terms. He seems to receive her silent message and grins back before looking away and crossing his arms on his chest, shifting from one foot to another, the tips of his ears slowly shifting from pale and freckled to crimson.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” George says with an exaggerated sigh of relief. They all turn their heads to see Fleur emerge from the house with her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and Fleur’s sister, Gabrielle.

Hermione gasps, and tells Ron, Fred and George to hurry up and get inside the tent. She is sat next to Ron in the second row behind Fred and George. Their chairs are set so closely together that her bare arm brushes against Ron’s dress robes, their elbows occasionally bumping throughout the ceremony, sending tingles up and down her spine. The ceremony is even more ethereal and magical as she had imagined, and when it is finished, her head is light and her heart is full of hope and want for a chance at this kind of happiness…

Later, as the reception is under way, she is at a table with Ron and Harry, watching Luna dance with herself as if in another world entirely. Ron compliments their friend, and a surge of warmth comes over her. While others tease Luna, hide her belongings, and don’t understand her – Hermione remembers her own initial views about the girl – Ron has always been her friend. Never teasing, but enjoying being around her, getting her to say silly things because he finds her genuinely interesting. She has grown to love Luna was well, but hearing him call her great and ‘good value’ just then reminds her of how wonderful he really is.

The moment is interrupted once more by Viktor Krum, taking Luna’s seat. Seeing Viktor again seems to have riled something up in Ron; After he defends Luna’s father to Viktor he looks at her, with her warm cheeks and wide eyes, and stands up unexpectedly, lurching her out of the intense concentration she was putting forth into not blushing, something she has been doing too much of lately for her liking.

“Come and dance,” he says with so much confidence in his voice, and determination in his eyes, that for a moment she is startled. She wants to be offended by his boldness, but really she’s enthralled by it. She asks herself what her mother would say, and next thing she knows she is on her feet. Ron looks like he wants to say something to Viktor, but she pulls him away, not wanting him to spoil the mood.

“Thank you,” she says to Ron when they are out of earshot.

“For what?”

They are in the center of the dance floor, the music is upbeat and loud, and guests are dancing all around them as they face one another, standing still.

“Oh, just, you know, for asking me to dance,” she shrugs, and then Ron is grabbing her by the hands and there is a sheepish grin plastered on his face before he steps back and tugs her back and forth; she’s giggling as he bends and extends his arms with her hands still clasped in his, and she does the same to him, and then they’re moving around the floor dancing and laughing. And she forgets all about Viktor Krum when he suddenly lets go of one hand and spins her on her heel. She squeals and reaches out to him, catching herself on his shoulder.

“Come on, Hermione!” he shouted at her as he pushes her away at arm’s length, shimmying from side to side. She rolls her eyes and twists her hips, imitating his moves. “That’s it! Now try this!”

He drops her hands and grabs the heel of his left shoe, bending his knee back and doing a funny dance with the other hand on his head. Hermione is covering her mouth, laughing and shaking her head.

“You look ridiculous. I am not doing that, no way!”

“Oh, yes, you are!” He reaches down and lifts her ankle so she is now standing on one leg, using his back for support. He makes her hold her lifted ankle, and she feels incredibly silly, but also breathless as he is so close, his head near her side, and his hand on her calf. “Now just sort of… pull it.”

“This is stupid,” she says, but when he backs away she tries anyway, almost falling over. Ron hurries over to steady her with both hands on her shoulders, his expression of pure amusement.

“Well, you didn’t do any better!” she huffs, now feeling embarrassed.

“Oh, blimey,” he manages to get out between chortles. “That made my night, it did.”

She smacks him on the arm and he reels backward with both hands in the air as an apology. But she can’t stay mad at him for long as she’s biting the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing.

“Alright, then. What other moves do you have?” she says, challenging him.

He raises his brow and rubs his hands together gleefully. Over the next few minutes he gets her to do the silliest dance moves- or what he calls dancing, which, to her, feels and looks more like they are having some kind of fit. But her heart is racing, and her hair is sticking to her neck from sweat, and she is having too much fun to care. Her whole world at this moment is just her and Ron, and all the times he finds ways to touch her: a pat on the head to make her scowl playfully, taking her hand to raise her arm and twirl her around again and again until she is dizzy enough for him to catch her in his arms, both of them oblivious to everyone else around them. 

As more guests pile onto the dance floor they have no choice but to inch closer together until their hips are bumping and hands are grazing. The next time he spins her around, he stops her mid-way and her back is to his front, and she can feel his fingertips on her waist. The music is still loud and fast, and she is lost in it, with her arms up and her body moving to the beat; her eyes are closed and her cheeks hurt from smiling too hard for too long.

Then, without warning, the music stops and a new song is playing. It’s not as fast; in fact, it is comparably much slower than the last. She drops her arms and opens her eyes when she feels Ron step away from her. She turns around and hardly notices that half the people have left the dance floor. There is only Ron standing there, panting and staring at her with a dark look in his eyes. His sleeves are rolled up, and his hair is standing up a bit in the front.

He licks his lips and his hand is out. She looks down at it and gulps.

“Wanna keep dancing?” he says, his brow curled in anticipation.

She answers by taking his hand, his palm clammy against her own, and they meet in the middle. She tries to regulate her breathing as their fingers intertwine and his other hand rests on her lower back. She curls her arm around his and her free hand is on his shoulder. He pulls her in until she is trapped in his frame, his scent, his warmth. Burning from so many emotions, the exertion from dancing, and Ron’s body that seems to have channeled the likeness of a furnace, she lays her head on his chest, sighing deeply.

He doesn’t have to know what is going on in her mind, and she doesn’t much care what he is thinking. She just wants to pretend, for however long this song will play, that everything is as it should be, that she has everything she wants, that she can be truly happy.

She lets him lead; he’s swaying them back and forth, not in any particular rhythm, when he places his chin - or his cheek, she can’t be sure - on the top of her head, and his chest rises underneath her cheek as he takes a deep breath then lets it out, blowing the flyaway hairs around her temple. She hums out loud and freezes at the involuntary noise that just came from her, hoping he hadn’t heard. But he does because he also stops for a second before resuming the swaying, his hand now pressing more firmly on her back, sliding across until his fingers are curled around her waist, making her breathe out and practically melt against him.

They stay like that, silent and moving just enough to be interpreted as dancing, until the tempo changes back to a more upbeat song and she has no choice but to extract herself from Ron. His ears are red as tomatoes, and he’s scratching the back of his neck, glancing around as more people enter the dance floor. She wonders if he’s worried if anyone saw them together, if he regrets asking her to dance, if he is now coming to his senses.

“I’m going to get some fresh air,” she says loudly, pointing in the direction of the exit closest to them.

“Brilliant idea,” he sounds relieved, then his face lights up, as if he just thought of something. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Oh, okay. But, wait, shouldn’t we find Harry?” She regrets the question as soon as it leaves her mouth. Ron frowns, then cranes his neck over the crowd.

“He’s talking to my Aunt Muriel. No way in hell I’m going near that conversation.”

Then, to her surprise, he grabs her elbow and steers her through the throng of dancers and out into the open night air. “Blimey, it’s hot as bollocks in there,” he says, pulling his dress robes away from his chest and wiping his brow.

“It was a lovely wedding,” she says as they start walking slowly and aimlessly through the grass, no longer feeling as anxious now that he has joined her, leaving everyone else behind in the tent. Now it is truly just the two of them- save for the few witches and wizards scattered throughout the garden.

“Yeah, wicked,” he replies. “I prefer the reception myself. More food.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so predictable. Two people declare their everlasting love and you’re more concerned with stuffing your face. Honestly, Ron.”

“Oi! I’m glad they’re married and all that,” he laughs, then nudges her side. “But did you see that cake? It’s huge! Now _that_ is lovely.”

“Everything about this whole night has been… fun.”

“Dancing was fun,” he says quietly just before he nudges her again.

She suppresses the urge to say anything more than, “Yes, it was,” looking up at him with a smile that he returns somewhat shyly. The fact that Ron can be shy about anything is making her lose focus on her steps in these heels she’s never worn before, and suddenly he’s catching her, not for the first time that night.

“Have you been sneaking the firewhiskey?” he quips, helping her stand upright again. “Or was it my good looks? I’m a handsome bloke- in the dark, some say.”

“Sure, that was it,” she says sarcastically as they continue walking. She’s grateful for his playful tone. This she is familiar with. “You’re just too gorgeous, Ron. It’s a dangerous weapon, that face of yours.”

He laughs and points at her face, which must be as red as it feels. “Well, then you must be downright lethal, yeah?” His laughter peters out as the statement hangs in the air. She is at a loss for words… did he just- Surely, it was a joke… right?

“Oh, shite.”

She looks to where he is scowling: the pier leading into the pond. She hadn’t realized that was where he had been taking her this entire time. It is currently occupied by a group of younger witches and wizards charming fish to jump up out of the water and perform flips mid-air.

“That’s alright,” she says with a sigh. “We should head back anyhow. Perhaps try and save poor Harry from your Aunt Muriel.”

“Yeah,” he turns and she has to walk fast to catch up.

“Are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” she says, confused. “I know that’s your favorite spot, but there are so many people here it’s not surprising they would use the pond, is it? You’ll have it back tomorrow.”

“You don’t-“ he starts to say, then shakes his head. “Just forget it.”

“No,” she stands her ground, making him stop and turn to face her.

“It’s nothing, Hermione. I just wanted… it doesn’t matter now. So don’t get all… Hermione on me and ask all kinds of questions.”

“What did you want? I don’t understand.”

He looks away for a moment, then shrugs and laughs quietly to himself, muttering something.

“Ron?”

“I just wanted to talk- alone- with you. That’s all.”

“But we’re alone and talking right now.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I know, you’re right. It’s stupid.”

“I said no such thing. I just don’t understand why them being on the pier has upset you so much.”

“I wanted to give you something, okay? Since we were kind of, you know, off, over Christmas, I never gave it to you, and I figured you’d might want it.”

“You- you bought me a gift?”

“Well, not exactly bought. Fred and George helped me make it. It’s not a big deal. Just- here.”

He plunges a hand into the pocket of his robes and pulls out a small box that is wrapped in green paper, torn around the corners. So he has held onto this gift for months, wanting to give it to her on the pier, at his spot, that is now _their_ spot, and her heart is clenching and swelling in her chest, threatening to burst.

“Sorry, I should’ve rewrapped it.”

“No… that’s… okay,” she says slowly, trying not to cry. She takes it from him, staring at it in awe as it sits on her palm. “I- I don’t know what to say.”

“Bloody hell, Hermione. Open it before all the cake is gone.”

She laughs at his abrupt tone, then tears the paper apart. She opens the lid of a dark wooden box that has an otter carved on top of it, and peers inside. She pulls out a cubed glass flask with a cork in the stopper, filled with a dark violet inky liquid mixed with the tiniest twinkling lights she’s ever seen.

“Oh my… What is it?” she asks, looking at Ron’s nervous face.

“It’s ink.”

“Oh! Right, of course. Well, thank you. I love the box, did you make it?”

“Sort of, but that’s not the cool part.” He is suddenly excited, coming in close to take it from her, showing her the label. “See? It changes color as you write.”

“Oh! Let’s see!” She bends over to pick up the discarded wrapping paper and tells him to open the flask. “Damn, I don’t have a quill.”

“Are you a witch, or not?” He chuckles and summons one from his bedroom window. She takes it from him and dips it into the magical ink.

“It’s amazing. Like a rainbow on paper. It even shimmers…” She’s smiling with her lip between her teeth, and can feel Ron staring at her as she writes. When she’s finished she hands it to Ron, taking the ink back and putting the cork back in.

He reads what she’s written, and she can see, even in the dim lighting, that his ears have turned red again. She places the bottle back into the wooden box and holds it protectively against her chest.

“Thank you,” she says breathlessly, watching him reread her note.

“Um, yeah, no problem...” He nods dazedly as he folds it twice and sticks it into his pocket. “And we will, don’t worry,” he adds, in reply to her message, and that is all she needs to know.

It’s awkward again, but this time she doesn’t let it get to her, not now, not after what just transpired between them. There doesn’t need to be any declarations, or special spots, or anything like that. She isn’t entirely sure she wants that at this point in their lives, with the Horcrux hunt still ahead of them. So many things are up in the air, but there are two things she knows for sure: No matter what happens there is an unbreakable bond between the two of them that she will fight to the death to protect, and that he will do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay feelings! Good feelings! I was so happy while writing this chapter, and I hope that translates well. (And don’t worry, you’ll find out what she wrote later…)
> 
> Thanks for reading! And don’t forget to leave a review! They’re like currency to us fanfiction writers.


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